Do not go gentle. Yes–pray, and walk shanti, talk shanti, be shanti, om. Yes, indeed, be kind–but do you remember the poem by Dylan Thomas? I do. I think about it all the time.
Today, my friends are lit up. Others are looking away from the blaze, waiting for something to stir inside. Some, sadly, are reveling in it. I am quietly watching, and ready.
I live in a comfortable America, where if you talk too much about the hard things, you will cause such discomfort, that people will retreat from you. You are not encouraged to fan the blaze. You are, however, encouraged to numb, to shrug and say, “but it is out of my control.”
We are never told, but it is understood: You may speak up, but it must sound eloquent, and slip free in moderate volume. It must entice, as much as it challenges. The discordance must never elevate above a certain threshold, or you will be silenced by the turning away of ears.
This, is a nice way of being told, “Shut the fuck up.” No, do not shut up. Yes, try harder to temper your narcissism, your ego, your dogma, your supremacy, but do not choke on false humility in the face of self-interested, Orwellian authority.
Do not slip on the muzzle, nor shrug, nor shuffle. Speak truth. Love good authority back, for its inherent goodness, and fight like hell against that which will threaten to undo us all. Join, and work together, to keep what we have built, because some of us have worked so hard to get here.
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOODNIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-Dylan Thomas, 1914-1953
